


Furtive

by pollitt



Category: The Prestige (movie)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2006
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-25
Updated: 2006-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-21 13:12:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pollitt/pseuds/pollitt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Secrets, shame and scars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Furtive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marginalia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginalia/gifts).



> Thank you to Maverick for reading this over. All mistakes are mine, however.

You barely had time to register much at all the first time Borden pushed you up against the side of the theatre wall and pressed his mouth against yours. When you grabbed hold of his shoulders, pressing your body against his, his mouth ripped away from your own, panting, his eyes flashing fear and desire before shuttering closed, the emotion vanished. And then, releasing you, he too, was gone.

The second time, weeks later, you were ready, having spent the time watching him, looking for some clue, waiting for some tell. But he's as complicated as one of the Oriental puzzle boxes you've seen sold in the square, one day looking at you with that selfsame expression you glimpsed outside the theatre and as indifferent as the air the next.

He's like no one you've ever known, a brilliant and sharp mind with the ability to see through an illusionist's performance and discover his secrets. You wonder in the time between the first taste of his mouth and the second, whether he's discovered yours. If the softness of your hands belie the story you've only scarcely told of your fabricated life, the one created to shelter your family from shame, as you promised, when the secret of your desires were discovered.

The second time he pulls you into a dim room filled with the tricks of your trade, and silences your questions with his mouth to yours, his hand reaching down, touching you through your clothes.

Borden set the rules-one of his hands tight around your flesh, another holding your shoulder flush against the wall-and you accepted, unwilling and unable to say anything to the contrary. He would determine when you would come together and where, there was to be no speaking, no endearments, there would be no more clothing removed than was necessary--most times the shirt or trousers need only be pushed to the side--and these stolen moments were to be held out of the light-moon, candle or otherwise.

You find you don't mind the dark, finding one another by touch. The illicitness of these couplings only serves to increase the desire that burns in your blood, and the memory of youthful indiscretions-the hands with dirt beneath their nails that sullied his family's view of him, that sent him here under the guise of another name--still brings a flush of regret to your face.

Away from the darkened hallways, the rooms scattered with clothes and tricks of the trade, your interaction with one another is limited to the night's performance, to discussing with Cutter the latest of his designs, and, on occasion, to spying upon the competition, attempting to decipher their secrets.

You're just beginning to get used to the pattern, to playing a game with yourself to predict what mood he will be in, who he will be-Alfred, with his almost gentle kiss, the way he touches your face, or Borden, who rips your shirt away from your neck and holds too tight, clutching your skin to the point of pain.

And then he changes the rules, touching your shoulder one night when you're bidding good night to Julia, who's becoming dear to you. Her hands may show signs of work, her willingness, her _desire_ to work with illusions may be far from the image of the wife-to-be his family envisioned for him, but a petticoat is better than a prick in their eyes.

"Care to walk?" He asks, his shoulders loose and his hands shoved in his pockets, he looks like he genuinely desires your company.

_Alfred._

Nodding, you begin to walk, passing by dark alleys and buildings whose walls have felt the press of your naked flesh and who have kept their secrets.

"You live not far from here, don't you," he says, a statement rather than a question and you answer, pointing to a building just up the lane.

"I have rooms there, yes."

There's a sadness and a determination in his eyes, the look of proud defiance that's so unique to his class, and then he smiles, crookedly and lavishly bows, pointing toward your building. "After you, Angiers."

Silently, the two of you walk to your rooms. Every so often your shoulders brush, and each time your skin feels electrified and he smiles.

Much like the first time, he grabs hold of you before you can do much more than breath. In the dim light of the room he pulls you to him, kissing you as though the answers to the questions of the universe could be found this way.

When you break apart, you open your mouth, questions beginning to form, but he touches his fingers to your lips, shaking his head, and kisses you again.

You lead him to your bed, pushing him back until he's prone, one arm behind his head, smiling. Taking advantage of this willingness to let you lead, you feel greatly daring, striking a match and lighting a candle near the bed. In the flickering light, he smiles and begins to unbutton his shirt. You follow his lead and a short while later, you're both naked and he pulls you onto the bed, onto him, expelling his breath as you land on him-gloriously skin to skin for the first time.

Trailing your hands down his torso, you feel a line of raised flesh, a scar.

"What's this?" You ask, running your finger over the jagged line, the mottled red a stark contrast against the cream color of his skin.

"Nothing." He pushes your hand away, moving it to more interesting terrain.

"How did receive it?" You ask, unable to calm the questions in your mind. "An accident in the workhouse?"

"It's not important." Alfred pulls your mouth to his and wraps his arms around your back, pushing your bodies together. The feel of his arousal against yours quiets the words and you let go.

Let yourself get lost.

You drift off, holding him in your arms, running your fingers through his hair, letting your hand trail down to his side, touching the scar. You dream of Borden as a young man, clutching at his bleeding side, looking at you, imploring your to understand. And then he disappears.

He's gone when you wake, and it's not until the night's performance that you see him. His eyes are twin storms, and when you approach him, attempt to touch his arm, he pushes you away angrily.

"Just leave off, Angier," Borden demands.

Julia brushes past him and he winces.

"Careful, love," Border says with a smile that turns your gut to quicksilver. Touching his side, just above the hip, he looks at you. "It's a bit tender."

You look away, look at Julia, who smiles sweetly. She's become dear to you. You return the smile and take her hand.

 


End file.
